Rot and Recovery
by breetoria
Summary: Just as Sam and Dean are picking up the pieces of their lives, post-Mark, Sam realizes he hasn't heard from Cas in a while. Turns out, the consequences of the Mark still run wide and deep. Now Cas is the one who needs to be fixed and Sam has to do it alone because Dean is the one who broke him. TW: Dean/Cas implied non-con, torture
1. Chapter 1

"Dean, when I go in there," Sam squeezed his eyes shut, concentrating only on gathering strength, "When I go in there...what am I going to find?"

TWO HOUR EARLIER

Sam had never been more content to listen to old mullet rock in the passenger seat of the Impala. If he'd believe in that sort of thing, he'd be thanking God every chance he got. Instead, he promised himself never to take Dean for granted again. He could put up with Kansas and his brother's awful singing if it meant having a brother at all.

The open road, his brother, the car...This was home. This was all he needed. He was too blissed out to let anything ruin it. Except. He hadn't heard from Cas in a while. It was probably nothing. The angel had a habit of taking off. But he wasn't answering his calls, and Sam hadn't heard from him in months. Curing Dean fell to Sam, Charlie, and Crowley, no matter how many times they tried calling Cas and no matter how desperate those calls became. Through it all, Sam ignored the sinking feeling in his stomach, reminding himself that the priority was Dean. Cas would want it that way. And then, when Dean was cured, they would see what was up with Cas.

Then the cure worked and Sam didn't want to bring up anything heavy. Nothing heavier than a routine salt and burn. Dean had been through enough. If Sam had the choice, he'd put off asking about Cas forever. Cas was fine, Cas was always fine, one way or the other. Sam would ignore the possibility that he wasn't.

The probability. The probability that Cas was alone, in trouble, sick, suffering...

Sam lowered the volume on the radio. He would have to broach this as delicately as possible. No cause for alarm, he reminded himself. Casual.

"Um, Dean? Have you heard from Cas lately?"

No matter how casual Sam could have said it, it couldn't get a good response. Dean's smile, which seconds before had been vibrant, melted into a look both horrified and blank.

"Dean?"

If there was a car on the road, they would have crashed. Sam almost grabbed the wheel, but Dean regained his senses enough to to slam on the accelerator in a screeching u-turn.

"What's going on?"

For two hours, Dean wouldn't respond. He barely even blinked, and when he did, small tears squeezed from his eyes and down his cheeks. All the good health from his brother's face had drained. Sam was certain he was trying to find the right cliff to drive off.

Dean barreled down several Nebraska side streets, not slowing down even when they were off the highway. They had several close calls with mailboxes. It was three in the morning, fortunately pedestrians in the street, because Sam was sure Dean would have run them over without batting an eye.

Eventually, the suburbs became rural, deserted and eerie. Dean stopped in front of a shack. His chest was heaving as if he had just run the distance instead of driving it.

"What is this?" Sam asked. "Where are we?"

Dean didn't respond. He just stared straight ahead, haunted.

"Dean, when I go in there," Sam squeezed his eyes shut, concentrating only on gathering strength, "When I go in there...what am I going to find?"

"Get him for me, Sammy. Please. He-" Dean closed his eyes, unable to say more. Sam had a million questions, but the most important one was already answered: Cas was in there. He couldn't waste another thing.

Sam pushed open the door, his hand twitching at the unpleasant softness. The wood didn't feel like it could last another week. Inside was worse; everything smelled of rot and mildew. _And death. It smells of death._ Sam pushed that thought down. Through the darkness, Sam could make out the vague outlines of shattered tables, broken lamps strewn about the floor.

He should have brought a flashlight. Glass crunched beneath his feet as he walked into the only other room. This was supposed to be a bedroom, if the cot in the corner was supposed to be a bed. It was smaller than a prison cot and looked harder too. Other than the screwdrivers, hammers, and other tools laid across it, it was empty. All that broken furniture, maybe Dean intended to repair some of it. The cot was stained, although that could have been a trick of the dim light. Sam would rather have slept on the floor, or even the large trunk against the wall. The only other thing in the room was a rusted toilet. If Cas was anywhere, he would be in here. There was nowhere else to go.

"Cas?"He should have brought a stupid flashlight. He could go back outside, but seeing Dean was the last thing he wanted to do. "Cas? Buddy? Look, I don't know-"

Sam took three deep breaths. There was a cot. The cot was empty. The cot was stained. Maybe Cas escaped. That had to be it. If he wasn't on the cot, then he probably escaped a while ago. It would be difficult, but Cas had made it on his own before, alone and human.

The only other thing was the trunk.

No. The trunk was barely big enough to fit an adult man's body. Barely big enough, which was still big enough, especially if he was scrunched in there, or tied up and dumped, or taken apart...

Sam couldn't breathe. Dean, no matter how much control the Mark had over him, would never do that to Cas. The haunted look on Dean's face when he brought up Cas, as if the memories came back, that look could have meant anything. Cas wasn't in the trunk.

Sam immediately dropped to his knees and fiddled with the latch. He would open the trunk and Cas wouldn't be in there, and then he and Dean would look for their friend, their brother...

The trunk wouldn't open. Sam screamed and took a screw driver from the bed, bashing it against the lock over and over. Cas couldn't be in there, so it wouldn't matter how much he screamed or how violently he broke it open.

Finally, he heard the satisfying metal thud as the lock hit the floor. Sam flung the lid open and peered in. _Cas wouldn't be in there..._

But he was. He was curled up, almost like a sleeping child- _a child stuffed a coffin,_ Sam thought, his heart pounding. _He's more skeleton than body._ Sam wanted to throw up. He reached in and to pulled Cas out of the box. He was even lighter than he looked, even if he was all dead weight.

"Cas, Cas," Sam whispered, as Cas's head lolled grotesquely over his arm. Sam brushed the dark, crusted hair back from Cas's forehead. This couldn't be as bad as it looked. All he needed to do was wake Cas up and the angel would realize he needed to heal himself. Once Cas knew he was safe, he would be OK. "Cas." Sam moved his hand to Castiel's cheek, but all it did was push his head against Sam's shoulder. "You're not dead. Please don't be dead."

But Cas _seemed_ dead. Sam put his hand in front of Cas's mouth, and when he didn't instantly feel the soft puff of breath, the tears came. Cas was dead. His friend was dead and-

Sam hadn't even been able to process the thought until now: Dean had killed him. Tortured him by the looks of it, and poor, devoted Cas, ancient warrior Cas, died in a cramped box in a cold decaying building.

Sam pressed his face into Cas's hair. He would never be able to look at Dean after this. Just like that, the last two weeks vanished. The two weeks of beer, bonding, being a family again...Sam would waste away in this shack clutching Cas's body before he ever went back to Dean.

The tears became a silent stream instead of shoulder-wracking sobs.

 _I'm so sorry, Cas. Things were supposed to be different._

Something in the house creaked and rattled. It could have been anything. Everything in the house was rusted and rotting. Was Dean coming in to check on what he had done? Sam shifted Cas even closer.

"He won't hurt you anymore," Sam promised his friend. "Nothing will hurt you anymore."

The rattling sound came again, louder, right next to Sam's ear. It wasn't the house. It was Cas. Sam pressed to fingers to Cas's neck. A pulse. Weak, but there. He cupped a grateful hand against Cas's cold, clammy cheek.

"I knew it. I knew you wouldn't let me down."


	2. Chapter 2

When Sam walked into that rotting shack, he had hope. He had a better relationship with his brother than he had in years, the safety and security of the bunker, and hope that things would be OK, as OK as they got for Winchester.

When he walked out of the rotting shack, all he had was the dangling dead weight of his and his brother's best friend

Managing to open the door while treating Cas's body with the tenderness and respect it deserved must have been hard. Sam didn't know how, but he did it. He opened the door and slid Cas onto the backseat, bundling his plaid overshirt under Cas's head and then draping the least dirty blanket he could find from the trunk. _Why am I wasting so much time making Cas comfortable when he could be flooring the accelerator and getting him to the bunker? This is stupid,_ Sam thought, staring at the unconscious lump in the back seat.

 _Because this might be his final resting place._

Cas was alive, but Sam didn't know how much time he had. He couldn't take it for granted that Cas would survive this.

 _I can't even see him. It's too dark here._

 _But I don't want to go back in the car with Dean._

Sam glanced to the front seats and noticed that his brother sat in the passenger side.

 _He makes me scrape his friend out of a box with no warning, and now he's making me drive,_ Sam thought, clenching his jaw.

 _I'm always cleaning up your messes._

Sam squeezed back hot, angry tears and got into the driver's seat without a word or a look at Dean. He had to do this for Cas. Set him up in the bunker, give him his own room. It was long overdue. Cas survived worse, Sam reminded himself as he drove. Cas survived death. He's survived Dean.

By the time Sam got back to the bunker, Dean was asleep. Sam felt his eyes flash in anger. _He made you DRIVE he TORTURED Cas he made you carry Cas's body and he thinks he deserves to SLEEP and-_

He would have throttled Dean, dragged him out of the car and thrown him down if that didn't mean waking Dean up, dealing with him, confronting him.

And there were more important things to do. Cas.

He left Dean sleeping in the passenger's seat.

"Alright, buddy, we're home," he said, gathering the pile that was Cas, his shirt, and the blanket. Cas was still grotesquely still and limp, but Sam was going to assume he was alive, at least until he was inside the Bunker.

He lay Cas on the couch, just for a preliminary look-over. In the light, everything was worse. It wasn't just a trick of poor lighting: Cas's face was mostly dried blood and bruises. Lacerations down his neck and chest, which were the only parts Sam could see. He assumed there would be more.

He was going to have to clean Cas.

Sam sighed and lifted Cas again. He was hoping that he would be able to tuck Cas into bed and call it a night, but no, he would have to clean his body and his wounds-his body _was_ mostly wounds. More carrying Cas. More reminders of what Dean did.

Sam set Castiel down on the bathroom floor while he ran the bath water, trying to get it to the perfect temperature. It was important, for some reason, for Cas to be as comfortable as possible every step of the way, even though he was beyond discomfort at the moment. Sam stared at the twisted body next to him as the lukewarm water poured over his hand. Cas, poor Cas, should stay unconscious for as long as possible.

"Alright," Sam said, peeling the blanket off of Cas, revealing a body of bruises and lacerations, as he thought. "I know this is awkward, and I wouldn't do this if I didn't have to. Don't tell-" _Dean._ "-anyone about this."

Sam let the tears come again. This was the most fucked up situation he had ever been in. Cas should be able to clean himself. Cas could mojo anything away, any dirt or grime or blood. Especially blood. Or it should be Dean cleaning Cas's wounds if Cas couldn't, wounds that Cas got from someone who wasn't Dean.

"I'm good. I'm fine. This is fine," Sam said, pressing his fingers against his eyes. He continued undressing Cas, breath hitching when he noticed dark bruising on his thighs. Tears threatened to fall again, but Sam pushed them back. He lowered Cas into the tub, then went on autopilot. It took several washcloths and bottles of shampoo to get Cas clean. Every time he looked at the body in the tub, all Sam could see was Cas's battered, apparently dead form.

He closed his eyes and counted to ten. When he opened them, he could see Cas objectively: clean, still dark with bruises, but no more dried blood. As good as Cas would be for a while.

Then the image dissolved, and Sam was seeing Cas as he was hours ago.

"No, no, you're good. Now we just gotta-" Sam couldn't hold back a huge yawn, suddenly reminded that he could get tired. It was a long night, and he had done a lot, and it wasn't surprising that he was bone weary. He could sleep for days, trying to put some distance between himself and this night. But first, he had to get Cas settled. "We just gotta get you to bed."

He swung Cas's arm over his shoulder again and bridal-carried him to an empty room. It was almost unbelievable that once Sam pulled the blanket over Cas, this phase would be done. Sam might be able to get some sleep himself.

Tucking the angel in was almost more absurd than bathing him. _Dean used to tuck me in when I was sick. He'd be better at this._ Now the rise and fall of the blanket indicated that Cas was still alive and Sam couldn't draw his eyes away. He put his fingers to Cas's neck to feel his pulse, then cupped his cheek. Maybe it was just his imagination, but there was already some warmth in it.

 _I'm watching my brother's angel sleep. I'm not supposed to do this. This is weird. Dean used to complain that Cas-_

Sam's heart froze. He hadn't heard the door open, hadn't heard any sounds in the bunker other than his own.

"I'll be right back," he said. He might as well wake Dean up, not because he cared, but when he got to the Impala, it was empty.

Sam didn't feel concern or dread or worry. He felt nothing but a dull sense of duty: go find out where Dean is. If finding out was too difficult, he would give up. Five minutes, tops.

Sam wandered around aimlessly, most of him wanting to not find Dean. He slowly trailed around the bunker, more sleep-walking than moving with a purpose. If he didn't find Dean, if he never saw Dean again, he would be OK with it.

But he did find Dean. Dean with an ax in his hand. Dean with an oddly blank yet tear-stained face and a pile of wood in front of him.

"Dean? What are you doing?" More curiosity than concern. Worry about the ax. The wood.

Dean took so long to answer that Sam thought he didn't hear. Sam wasn't going to repeat the question. This would be Sam's out, an excuse not to talk. Before Sam could leave, Dean took a shuddering breath.

"I'm building him a pyre. He deserves one, you know? We never had to...to bury him before," Dean wiped his eyes with his sleeve. "But he deserves a g-good send-off."

Dean covered his face with his entire hand, letting out a strangled, shaking whisper."

"I was thinking of telling Charlie. She'd want to be here. They were friends. They barely got a chance to-"

 _He thinks he's dead._ If Dean didn't have the ax to lean on, he would be crumpled on the ground, Sam thought.

 _He thinks he killed him._

"Dean, he's not dead," Sam said, baffled, but then he remembered thinking Cas was dead, how still and corpse-like he was. Dean didn't have any evidence to the contrary.

"He's-" Dean stared at Sam with huge green eyes. With the sun coming up, Sam could see how pale he was, how all the memories and conflict played in Dean's eyes before Dean broke even more, falling to his knees while his hands slid down the ax handle. Dean never cried like this. It was relief and regret, fear, happiness, sadness.

 _Comfort him,_ Sam's dull sense of duty said.

Instead, he turned back to the bunker without saying a word, leaving Dean crying against the ax handle.


End file.
